Writing on the Wall
by ChiaraStorm
Summary: Wherever. Whatever. Have a nice day.
1. Chapter I: Comfort

Hey! It's me again! This is my next MOPI project, a series of vignettes detailing the relationship of Mike and Scott. These vignettes will be all over the place; some before the movie, some during and some after, some in Mike's POV, or Scott's, or third person. They'll be pretty crazy. But the main idea I have behind writing this is that hopefully this will help me set up the sequel for Understanding (yes, there will be a sequel called Conviction), but I haven't gotten around to writing much of it yet, so I didn't want to post it at this moment. However, this category is dying, so I thought I'd try to keep it active by posting something new.

The way I'm doing these vignettes is that I'm using a prompt to inspire a small scene (the prompt for this chapter was 'comfort'). If anyone has any ideas – like 'death', 'scars' or 'carrots' (!) just tell me and I'll try and work them in somewhere.

I reckon the rating will change to **M** at some point for sexual content and language probably. I'll give you all warning of when that will be.

**Disclaimer:** My Own Private Idaho is the property of Gus Van Sant and New Line Studios. It's shit all to do with me.

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**Chapter I: Comfort**

_And if you're cold, I'll keep you warm_

_And if you're low, just hold on_

_And I will be your safety_

_Don't Leave Home – Dido_

It was amazing how much time had changed him.

A year ago, the Scott Favor he had known would never have been living here. The old Scott Favor, the mayor's son, the heir to the Favor fortune, the only outlet for all of his father's hopes and expectations, would have still been sitting in the mansion he had grown up in, born with a silver spoon in his mouth and growing up to fit the mould his father had planned for him. It was already shaped, a perfect fit for what his father wanted him to be. All he had to do was make sure he fit, and then everything would have been okay.

But no. Some surge of rebellion had taken him over. And that was how he had ended up storming out of his father's house one morning, taking with him a pocketful of money and a handful of expectations for the future. What the hell, no life could be worse than this. Suffocated by a useless dick that only saw him as part of his legacy, something more for the great Jack Favor to leave behind and a mother who couldn't have cared less about him.

And now he was here. The money in his pocket was all gone, and most of his expectations had worn away after a few months.

But, whether he liked it or not, he was a Favor. He might not have had the virtues his father thought were important – integrity, faith, honour to name a few – but he had the Favour resourcefulness, the Favor intelligence, and whether he liked it or not, he had the Favour ambition. Unlike his father though, who wanted to leave a mark in the world when he was dead and be remembered, Scott wanted money. Scott wanted comfort. Preferably the kind of comfort that came imprinted on fifty dollar bills, the comfort that came with a fat wallet.

This life was fine. It was severely pissing off his father – score one. Here, he was respected, if only by Bob's gang of street kids and down and outs – score two. Finally, Scott got to reveal the parts of him that his father hated most – score three. But he couldn't cope with this life forever. This had no future. They were all without time here, because time had no meaning for those who had no meaning.

There was no reason why he couldn't go back tomorrow. If he picked his moment, sometime public, maybe after church or something, his family wouldn't be able to turn him away. They wouldn't throw him out in public, and though he'd get worse behind closed doors, he would have somewhere to go.

Somewhere to go, no-one to be with.

A noise from behind disturbed him. On the hard rooftop behind him, Mike, his face contorting while he slept. Dreaming. Going fucking mental was the term Gary used, but Mike had never said what he actually dreamt about. Scott knew it wasn't good though. He'd sometimes seen Mike wake up with a sort of terror in his eyes that faded once he realised he was out of the dream, but that didn't stop it from being any less real. Scott didn't dream, and he didn't want to, if that was what they were like.

Scott went over to his friend, sitting next to him. He didn't really have any idea what he was hoping to achieve, but he wasn't going to leave Mike like that. In a manner that was almost routine, he pulled Mike closer to him, trying to keep him still. Whenever it got too bad, he would thrash around, as though he was trying to break the boundaries of the dream. Though Scott was flippant about it, Mike was his best friend. He couldn't bear seeing him tortured when he slept. He used his own body to try and still Mike's convulsions while he slept. It was so dark he couldn't even see Mike's face, but he could feel his sleeping body against his, fitting and then stilling.

It felt eerily calm, after Mike's fit had passed. Scott suddenly felt tired, as though the stillness on the roof was stilling and wearying his mind. Though maybe that was the cold, spreading from the tips of his fingers into his body.

It was too exposed out on the rooftop. The street lights below didn't reach up here, so the only light came from the stars, like pinpricks in black silk. As beautiful as it was, they would both freeze, up here on the merciless rooftop.

Lying down next to Mike in the shelter of the air vent, Scott carefully placed the rag that passed as a blanket over the two of them, Scott unconsciously holding Mike as he slept. It took him a second to realise that he was cradling him, protecting him. Watching over him. It felt bizarre to Scott as he realised that. Maybe because no-one had ever watched over him before, and he'd never returned to favour. Whatever. He couldn't let go though. Not even when his arms began to protest as he held Mike in his arms.

He couldn't let go of him.

He closed his eyes and slept, for once, dreaming, though when he woke up, he couldn't remember what they were about.

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Please review! 


	2. Chapter II: Kiss

**LadyOfThieves **– I'd never have guessed you were drunk whilst writing this review (sarcasm…). Glad you had a good time anyway. I'm pretty sure getting legless is not all that conducive to writing, but I think we'll have to experiment and find out ;) These probably will be sad, but a lot of the stuff I write is. That or fluffy. One of the two :) And yes, let's watch all the Matrixes! I really need to, actually. Just to see a certain actor again. I think I'm detoxing from Keanu Reeves, actually. I haven't seen one of his films in ages. Well, except for Constantine and Thumbsucker in half term. You're gobsmacked now, aren't you? Don't worry, I'm sure this is just a phase I'm going through! By the way, what are you doing on the 17th March? Because I'm going to see V for Vendetta, and I wanted to know if you wanted to come. Give me a phone call, yeah? P.S A chocolate fountain? God, I hate you right now…joking, joking! But if you could give me a chocolate fountain I would love you forever…anyway, thanks for reviewing!

**Frisky Wallabee** – Aw, thank you! I'm still blushing…I'm sure you're psychic. I've planned out some prompts for this story, up till about chapter eight or something, and either six or seven is 'chocolate'. That is really freaky. Have you ever suspected you were clairvoyant before? If I can do anything to help with the writer's block (what a bitch) just let me know. Us MOPI writers have to stick together! Thanks for reviewing!

Sorry, but this is a short one. And I made you all wait for an update, but I had to do some editing to this, otherwise I would have updated on Saturday. But hey, three fics and three updates in a day can't be too bad, right?

**Saphir Neyraud**, thank you for putting this story on your favourites list. I'd really love to hear from you! I don't bite (much…). Okay, I totally ripped that joke off from Astral Light. But whatever, it'd be really nice to talk to you!

Anyway, I hope you all really enjoy this, and please review!

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**Chapter II: Kiss**

_Lips that taste of tears, they say, are the best for kissing.  
_

– _Dorothy Parker_

He wished that just once, someone would kiss him.

He couldn't remember ever getting a kiss from his mom. He had just a few images of her in his head. Through his eyes, she was beautiful. Immaculate. Flawless. But they were his baby's eyes, and they were untainted. Now, he wondered whether the scant images of his mom were accurate. And though he loved her, she never even touched him. He was a relic of what had happened. An incestuous child. Fucked up inside as well as out. Fucked up. Fucked over. Fucked.

And of course, no-one would kiss him out here. He could sell his body, but no-one would kiss his lips. That would make it too intimate. You couldn't fuck someone like the whore they were and then kiss them. It didn't work like that. People paid for his body, they didn't want his soul. An ass without a face.

No-one had ever shown him any sort of love. He had friends, here, on the streets, but he couldn't talk to them about anything. Not anything that truly mattered. They couldn't know everything about him. There were some things that were too dark, too intimate, to share. If he told them that, they'd never look at him again. There were some things that were too fucked up to explain. He could just about count on them for their fair-weather friendship, and companionship on the lonely streets. But no-one loved him. If he wasn't there, some other fucker would be, selling his ass and guarding his soul, like him.

Mike looked at Scott, several metres away, talking to Denise. Everyone looked spellbound when they talked to Scott, and she was no exception. No matter what he said, no matter what tone he said them in, no matter if he was directly contradicting himself, he always held them spellbound, listening to the gold that fell from his lips.

He wanted to kiss him so much. So fucking much it hurt. He wanted to feel Scott's soft lips against his own, feel his skin against his. If he had the guts, he would get up, walk over there and kiss Scott. Anything to get rid of this burning feeling inside of him, in equal parts longing and hesitation.

But he knew he didn't have the guts. Because he was scared of rejection. Because he was scared of, for once, being honest with himself and possibly, just possibly, getting something he'd always wanted. Good things didn't happen to him. They never fucking did. Why? Because he was Mike Waters. Good things didn't happen to Mike fucking Waters. They just didn't. The universe didn't like him. No-one did.

He didn't have the fucking right to kiss anyone.

He didn't have the fucking right to expect a kiss from anyone. Least of all Scott.

Scott was perfect. Scott was like a god. And he was trash. He was a useless, waste of space fuck up. He couldn't expect anything from Scott.

How could Scott ever love someone like him? Someone so screwed over, so impure?

His hand curled up into a fist on his thigh, his fingernails digging into his skin to silence the words that wanted to come out of his mouth.

_I love you…_

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Amazingly fluffy, I know, but I seem to be working to a theme here (every chapter of every fic I'm working on today seems to end up being scarily fluffy). And, it's MikeScott fluff. Who can resist?

Please review!


	3. Chapter III: Rain

**LadyOfThieves **– Wah, no chocolate fountain! Yes, you don't make sense a lot of the time, that's true, but you did that time. Remarkable! I love the ending for that chapter, I just wanted to hug Mike when I wrote that…yes, I know he's only a character, but let me dream? English essays suck…mine are always atrocious. I forget to quote most of the time, so my teacher writes in red pen 'have you actually read the text? Prove it!' Stupid bat…anyway, thanks for reviewing, and see you on the 17th (hopefully).

**scarstar – **Thanks for those prompts! I've already got some ideas for both of those prompts…watch this space! Yeah, this will be going for a while. I'd like to do a hundred, but I'd rather do ten good ones than a hundred mediocre ones, so I'll see how it goes. I'm so glad that you liked the chapters, I don't know why, but I really felt like I got Scott down in the first one in a way that I don't think I've managed before. Yay indeed for keeping this category alive – for some reason, I think this is my favourite category to write for, even though I don't get as many reviews as for something like Memento Mori. Oh well, quality not quantity, as you said! And I love hearing from MOPI fans…it proves that they have good taste and a certain liking for the surreal, which is good if you ever have to read my writing! Thanks for reviewing!

Warning; this chapter is utterly surreal. Seriously. More so than usual. I don't quite know where this came from, but I was listening to a lot of Brand New, and then it really was raining outside, so this chapter was always going to be manic depressive, but it turned out kinda bizarre. It's done from a random third person, but from the perspective of a random hustler. I hope it makes sense. I just wanted to experiment, and try to discover some of the darkness of the street life and the world of MOPI. If it doesn't work, tell me, and I'll edit it.

Random note – I saw Running On Empty (has anyone seen it?), the River Phoenix film for which he was nominated for an Oscar, and I totally adored it. If I could get a category added, would anyone review my fic?

Oh, I totally forgot to say, the title of this whole fic, Writing on the Wall, is from a song by Rage Against the Machine, in which some of the lyrics are 'read my writing on the wall, no-one's there to catch me as I fall'. Or something to that effect. Anyway, they seemed like good MOPI lyrics.

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**Chapter III: Rain**

_Concrete and water,_

_She's looking for her daughter,_

_At midnight in torrential downpour…_

_Brand New – Jaws Theme Swimming_

The rain, the pathetic rain, kept on falling.

They sheltered out beneath the bridge. It was dark, but the outside world was curiously lit by street lighting, and the stark lights cast strange shadows on the water dripping from the edge of the bridge. The occasional car went past, roaring like thunder over the bridge, but for the most part, it was quiet. The cars didn't bother him as much as those who were walking. No-one was out walking in this sort of weather unless they had some form of agenda. They either came to take one of them by the hand or by the collar, and lead them out from under the bridge's strange comfort, or they came looking for a victim. Either way, they would select their sacrifice, and they would be led off into the night. Like a lamb to the slaughter. A scapegoat for sins. The street boys were at the bottom of society, no-one cared what would happen to them. Whenever he slept, under piles of newspaper, he never read it. He knew that somewhere between the cheap sheets he'll find a murder of someone like him. News several weeks old. He probably knew about it before the reporters did. Stuff like that travels fast among the sewers.

He took a drag on the cigarette, but the breath sticks in his throat as he hears footsteps overhead. They sound softly on the brick and concrete sidewalk, but as he steps onto the iron staircase that will lead him down, beneath the bridge, to the gang of boys waiting beneath. Each one of them knows what's going to happen. Each one of them, though he'd never admit it, doesn't want this.

You have to live though. And sometimes, just sometimes, it seems like a vaguely fair deal. It's survival. And for a little work, he can survive. Better than perhaps he deserves, some would say. But it's still a chance at life. He's not gay. But that doesn't mean he has so much dignity he won't sell his ass.

Then he's on his front, silently screaming into clenched teeth, and he quickly changes his mind. Life seems so far away as he watches himself in a stray motel mirror. This feels like hell, complete with torture.

The footsteps move back on the brick, descending into the distance, and he finally breathes, letting fear out and his chest loosen. He quickly stubs out the cigarette, scared someone will see his hand shaking.

The truth was, he was tired. Tired of this life, of spending his time outside and waiting for fate too come and take him on the next path of his life. Everything had faded, everything outside of this life, and now he was just a body without a mind. The mind was somewhere else, beyond these earthly trials. It was hard to believe that he could still have a philosophical view on this, after all that his body had endured. But there was a distinct lack of soul left in his body. That was probably the reason why.

Prostitution's as old as time itself. Carnal desire's something that never changes. But this, this, had to be a new low for society. A democratic country, a land of the free, and yet he knows that up and down and all over the nation, he'll find more boys doing this, waiting beneath a bridge, where the cold and rain will get them if nothing else does.

He watches them. There are two people he sees here he hasn't seen before. One, with dark hair, but unmistakable eyes, even in the gloom, talks. He can't hear what he's saying, but he knows that this is a newbie. Someone who doesn't know what they're in for.

They'll learn…

The other was different. He looked less eager, as though he knew this life. Maybe not consciously, his face seemed almost innocent, but on some level, he knew. He knew. It's written on his face, the truth of this life overlaid with naiveté. He wants to believe there's something else, that there's a reason behind this. Fat fucking chance.

As he lifted the cigarette to his lips, he watches them all, the blonde guy, the dark guy and everyone else. No words are said, because everyone knows that this could be the last time. This could be the time that they're chosen for the sacrifice. They could be the ones that are led off to be fucked to death in some dark alley, or who crack their skull against a brick wall as they are pushed against it, barely recovering before a blade is shoved into their abdomen, blood trickling down their legs like the remains of a merciless fuck.

_No. _

_No-one's got any fucking idea. _

The rain, the pathetic rain, kept on falling.

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Please review! If you have an idea for a prompt, please tell me! 


	4. Chapter IV: Pain

**LadyOfThieves** – You alcoholic you. Yeah, it was definitely surreal, but I liked my little anonymous hustler – he was kinda interesting to write. You still on for the 17th? Now, don't get too drunk between now and then – save some for me! I've got a bunch of Evanescence stuff, some copied from other albums – do you want me to email them to you? Talk to you soon, remember to go to the AA meeting! (joke…)

**Lilsara723** – Yay! Thank you! Your review totally brightened up an otherwise crappy day. And I love those themes. They're totally going in here – probably around chapter 10 or something. Thanks for reviewing!

**Beena-Pani** – Yay! I'm so glad you found this story – your reviews were so helpful when I was writing Understanding. Unfortunately, I don't start holidays until April. And I'm meant to be revising then…bah, screw that, I'd rather write! Anyway, catch up on your sleep (I know the feeling – I'm meant to be turning out five A3 pages of art work a week in the run up to my exam, and so that's meant compromising on sleeping. Fun…), and I look forward to hearing from you again soon!

Okay, and after the great surrealness that was the last chapter, here is some less surreal MikeScott fluff. Well, all MOPI stuff is surreal to some degree, but this is less so than last chapter.

By the way, to anyone who has read Understanding, I've planned out a sequel, called Conviction and will hopefully start writing it soon. It's going to be a trilogy, so I've even got a third part planned. Wow. I've never really gotten as far as a trilogy before…

Also, I realised last night we are entering the 15th year of MOPI, since it came out in 1991. I was a little over two when it came out – according to the IMDb, it came out on the 18th October 1991, so I would have been two and sixteen days old. Weird, huh? Just out of interest, how did everyone find out about the movie – I know about you, **LadyOfThieves**, I leant it to you!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter!

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**Chapter IV: Pain**

et verbis favet ipsa suis egressaque silva,

ibat, ut iniceret sperato bracchia collo.

ille fugit fugiensque 'manus complexibus aufer;

ante' ait 'emoriar, quam sit tibi copia nostri.'

retullit illa nihil nisi 'sit tibi copia nostri.'

_And she herself is as good as her words and, having come out of the woods_

_She went up to him to throw her arms around the neck she hoped for. _

_But he runs away, and fleeing says, 'Take your hands away! Don't embrace me!_

_May I die before you enjoy me.'_

_She said nothing in reply except, 'May you enjoy me.'_

_Echo and Narcissus - Ovid_

It's like a knife in my heart. And he's twisting the blade. I can feel it, hot red blood, falling from my chest, pulling me down. And the man inside the hood laughs, and as long as he laughs, it doesn't fucking stop. He laughs and I hate it. I don't want my fucking life to end with the sound of his laughter. The hooded man moves, and I catch a glimpse of his face. I know that expression. I can picture it in my mind, and every time I've seen it before. I need to see his face properly. I want to run over to him and rip his hood off, but it all hurts too much. I can feel it, the blade in my chest, twisting, and every other muscle in my body singing in pain. I press my hands to my chest, trying to keep the blood in. I can taste it in my mouth, sharp on my tongue, but familiar, like eating a food you used to have when you were a kid. And I don't have that whole 'life flashing before your eyes' crap. I just see him. The man in the hood. I know who he is. And I want to hate him, to loathe him, to curse him with my dying breath. But I can't. Because I know who's behind the hood.

Scott Favor killed me. Scott Favor cut my fucking heart out. I look up and see inside the hood. I see his eyes, shining darkly. And I know he's smiling that vintage Scott grin, the one that means that some bastard's got screwed over. Me. I'm dying and this is the last thing I'll ever see…

"Mike? Wake up Mike."

I open my eyes, and the first thing I see is Scott's dark eyes, loaming over me, and I could feel my fingers twitching.

"Mike man, you were dreaming," I hear Scott say, but it takes a few seconds before all this makes sense. Even then, I don't believe I was dreaming. You don't taste your own blood in dreams, or feel a knife blade beneath your skin. Not even me, and I've had some fucked up dreams. I didn't fucking believe it.

Or maybe I didn't want to believe it.

"I'm okay man," I say to Scott. "Go back to sleep." We are underneath a bridge. A friend of a friend sleeps here and we sort of hijacked it. That is, Scott did. I wouldn't have had the guts. I just went along with it. But at least it was dry and sheltered, though it wasn't all that comfortable.

I hear Scott settling back down to sleep, but I don't. My fingers pick at the earth out of habit, as a distraction, a mindless endeavour so that my mind can shut off. I don't want to think, but I do.

I knew all along that it was Scott beneath the hood. I knew he stabbed me. And I really, really wanted to hate him, even in the dream. But I didn't. I couldn't. Because I don't and can't while I'm awake.

God, I fucking love him.

And every night I get stabbed in my sleep, as a reminder of how much it hurts when someone doesn't love you back.

And I can't ever tell him, because I know that he would reject me. And I'm scared of that pain. I can't I can't I can't…so I live in this pain. There's no way out now.

I'm dying every night, and I'll always wake up the next day. Ready to disguise feelings and hide behind a mask, so that no-one will ever know.

I rub my hand rhythmically over my ribcage, my breastbone, the closest I can get to my heart without ripping it out of my chest. I rub it soothingly, like my mom rubbed my back peacefully when I was scared or in pain. Now I'm in the worst kind of pain, and I don't know how to make it end. I only know what will make it go away.

_Scott…_

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Ah, so sad…not really sad, but I couldn't think how else to end it. Please review! 


	5. Chapter V: Death

**LadyOfThieves **– Well, I saw you yesterday, so there's not so much to say…The hands have healed, right? I think shooting yourself is an excellent idea just before GCSEs…any chance I could borrow a gun? Just kidding…well, not really ;)

**Lilsara723** – Depressing in a good way? That totally sums up the feel of the whole movie, I think. Glad to know I got it down (hugs). I found this movie in one of those little magazines shops do to advertise what's about to come out, you know? And I just saw the words 'Keanu Reeves' and I was interested, but it said it was an 18, and I knew none of the people I knew who could buy it for me would buy me a movie about male prostitutes, so I almost went to the point of forging my own ID, but they'd got it wrong, it was a fifteen. So I didn't have to break the law :)

**scarstar **– Yay, thank you! I got the idea for the pathetic rain from a piece of writing my aunt did about idiot wind, and it was really good, so I sort nicked her technique (innocent look) What? Who said that? Thanks for reviewing!

Thank you all for your reviews! They totally made me feel loved. I'm really glad that people are reading this story, because it would be so easy for this category to die. So, considering that I started it, it's very good for my ego to know that people are still reading ;)

Note on the sequel to Understanding – I'm aiming to start writing it in the Easter holidays, so I should be posting it around late April/May time. Sound okay? (Yes, I know I'm shamelessly pimping my own stuff…so what?)

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**Chapter V: Death**

_Oh, for the time when I shall sleep without identity.  
_

– _Emily Bronte_

The world spins around me, yet I can't fall. The screams and shouts and voices all become one, one gloriously loud and oblivious sound, blocking out all others. It's all there is left, I know. The end of an era.

We dance on his grave. It's all improper and unconventional, but that it's our lives. We're fucked up and screwed over and no-one finds the time to care. Life becomes irrelevant, as long as everything keeps moving,

The end of an era.

He catches my eye. He fucking stares at me. Do you recognise me? I don't recognise me. You were always immaculate. Without flaws. Now though, you seem darker. I can see shadows across your face, shadows I couldn't see before. I can't see the Scott I used to know.

Why are you here?

Do you know why I'm here?

You killed him. We all know it. Scottie Favor broke Bob Pigeon's black, cynical heart. And you broke mine too. Only, I didn't die. I'm a skeleton filling skin. A body without substance.

You still stare at me. Are you wondering about me? Do you think of me?

Did you ever love me, even a bit?

Answer me, you fuck. I want to hear you say it. I want to hear your words, your voice.

I want to hear you say it so that I can forget you.

I feel crazy and dangerous and fucked up and ghostly. Nothing can hurt me, because right now I don't think I exist. The only people in the world who might have cared about me are gone, dead or have just abandoned me, leaving me alone. But I can't feel anything. I'm floating, soaring, on a wave of drugs and grief and the whole surreal world that has built itself up around me.

And now I see you. You're the only still thing in a world that won't stop moving. The whole world stops for you, and I'm losing it. I want you to say it. Say it, you fuck. I want to know what you feel when you think about me. Because then I can poison all my memories of you and you can rise while I fall into the shit.

I'm dancing on Bob's grave, and I wouldn't care if I was dancing on yours. I feel so high, higher than any drug could ever make me, and I don't ever want to come down. Because when I come down, I'll remember why I love you. Loved you. Still love you. No matter what, I don't want to remember that, because then I'll remember why you left, and then I'll want to punch you into fucking pieces, and then I'll want to put you back together again. I'll want to rip out your heart like you ripped out mine, and then I'll want to put it back.

I don't want to remember all of that. I don't want to have to deal with that.

You rise. I fall into the shit. If it's that way, I can deal with that. If I remember why I love you, it becomes balanced, and that's just fucked up. I don't know what to do with that.

It's easier if I hate you, and it's easier if you're dead to me. So leave. Fucking piss off, and let me get back to my world. My world. Not yours anymore. Mine. No-one would believe now that you used to sleep under bridges with me, and used to huddle with me when it was cold. No-one would fucking know. So that's it. A whole life, a life so strong, just faded away into obscurity.

You used to be my life. And now I want to die, to end that life, put an end to all of this.

But I can't. Because it's you.

And we're being pulled down, into death and a never-ending cycle that we spin around in, able to see each other, but unable to touch. There was a time when I would have done anything for you. Now you're dead to me.

Or maybe I'm just kidding myself.

We whirl around in this manic dance, but you're not joining in. You fucking left us all. You're a fucking murderer. We all knew that you were ruthless Favor, but we never thought we'd be on the receiving end. You turned the knife.

I think these words, but they feel light. Trivial. Like something passing by you that you don't notice. I don't ever want to lose this feeling. Because I don't think about you when I'm like this. Because I don't love you when I'm feeling like this. Because I can kid myself into believing that you're dead to me.

I know you're not. But maybe the illusion is better than reality. Maybe our deaths are the only way to forget everything, bring it around into harmony.

I spiral out of control, and your face disappears. For all I know now, you're dead. But I can't turn around to see you, because my face it tilted upwards to the sky.

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Please review! 


	6. Chapter VI: Heat

**LadyOfThieves** – Your world of cookies sounds great…not sure about the Commonwealth games, but the cookies sound fantastic ;) I heard about that, but they couldn't close it for long at a time because of the congestion it caused. Hey, when are you away? Because I really, really need to go shopping for some clothes, and wanted to know if you wanted to come with. By the way, are you interested in purchasing my copy of Kingdom of Heaven? Because there's a director's cut coming out, and so I'm selling my original on eBay, but if you want it, you're welcome. Drop me an email sometime, yeah? Love you, see you soon :)

**scarstar **– Thanks! I love getting your reviews, they make me feel so positive about my writing ;)

**Lilsara723 –** Yeah, there's an edition with a book, isn't there? I'm watching eBay for one – you can't get that one over here (angry rant) My mum knows that I love it, but she doesn't know what it's about, and I'm not telling her ;) I'm glad I didn't have to break the law either, it could have gotten messy…thanks for reviewing!

**Beena-Pani – **Yay! I love meeting other Librans, I think I come off as saner ;) It's cool that your mum knew about it, I still haven't really told mine about it…though she does know a bit about it, since she bought me my MOPI poster (it's just next to my computer, so I get Keanu and River looking down on me as I write. Which is very inspirational.) I'm so glad you liked Rain, I was worried about that one because it was so surreal and bizarre, but it was so cool to write. Anyway, this is far too long as it is, so I'll just add thanks for reviewing!

I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to update, but I've had exams recently, and it's all been really stressful. On a brighter note, it's the holidays, and I'm starting to write the sequel to Understanding. So it's all good.

As an apology for not updating sooner, here's what I think is the longest chapter to date, and also one of my favourite scenes from the movie. I hope you all like it, as I really enjoyed writing this bit.

Dedicated to **Lilsara723**, as it was her suggestion for a prompt that inspired this whole scene.

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**Chapter VI: Heat**

_Just because somebody doesn't love you the way you want them to, doesn't mean they don't love you with all they have._

– _Author Unknown_

The air is rapidly cooling, but the sky is red and angry, fading to black the further up you look. It's completely empty, apart from a few miles of scrubby farm land and the echoing howl of distant wolves or coyotes. All that's between them is a glowing fire, blazing brightly, illuminating their faces, creating darker highlights in Mike's hair and lighter ones in Scott's. It's still and silent, apart from the coyote calls, and whilst Scott is sprawled out and relaxed, Mike is taut and tense, perched on his heels as though he doesn't want to sit down. It's quietly nervous, and at that moment it feels like they are the only two people in the world.

"Getting away from everything feels good," Scott says, the first person to break the silence.

"Yeah, it does." Mike's voice is hoarse and quiet, as though he's afraid of being overheard.

"When I left home, the maid asked me where I was off to. I said, 'wherever, whatever. Have a nice day.'" Scott's not even that sure why he brought that up. Maybe he just needed to let the memory out into the open.

"You had a maid?" Mike knows that Scott's family are wealthy, but he can't picture a maid somehow.

"Yeah."

"If I had a normal family and a good upbringing...then I would have been a well-adjusted person." There's almost a trace of bitterness in Mike's voice, but it's nothing compared to what he actually wishes for from his family. Bitterness doesn't cover it, the gamut of human emotion would just about sum it up.

"Depends on what you call normal."

"Yeah, it does." Mike tries to think about it – he didn't have too much experience with normal. "Well, you know, normal, like - like a mom and a dad...and a dog and shit like that. Normal. Normal."

"So you didn't have a normal dog?" Scott manages to make it sound like a serious question, even though he can't resist trying to make Mike laugh.

Mike doesn't laugh though. He's staring at the fire intently, as though he sees something in it that Scott doesn't. "No, I didn't have a dog."

"You didn't have a normal dad?"

Mike thinks about what to say. He's never told Scott anything about his family before, and doesn't want to. Scott's perfect. He doesn't need to know about all the shit of Mike's family. "Didn't have a dog or- or- or a normal dad anyway." He sniffs, a permanent vestige of street life, brought about by a mixture of cold and coke. "That's all right. I don't feel sorry for myself. I mean, I feel like I'm - I feel like I'm, you know, well-adjusted."

Scott smiles silently, knowing that Mike's just contradicted himself, but he can't be bothered to bring it up. He doesn't believe his claim anyway that's he's not sorry about his family, and Mike doesn't expect him to, but he doesn't say anything. Now, Scott is looking into the fire as well, before twisting his head around to look at Mike, searching his face for an answer. "What's a normal dad?" Mike's never talked about his dad, so Scott kinda assumed that he was normal. Scott can't judge, as his dad's anything but normal. But he doesn't want to think about him now.

Scott always has the habit of asking a question you'd rather not answer, that you'd rather not think about. "I don't know…" There's more silence now, and Mike won't look at Scott at all. He just stares into the fire, like it's holding all the answers. "I'd like to talk with you. I mean, I'd like to really talk with you. We're talking right now, but, you know - I don't know. I – I don't feel like I can be…" He's so close to it, so close to saying what has been tormenting him for so long. "I don't feel like I can be close to you." Is it his imagination, or has everyone gone totally silent? "I mean, we're close. Right now we're close, but, I mean – you know – uh –"

Mike's never talked this much before. Scott knows that he and Mike are close friends, but on the streets, that can mean anything. "How close? I mean –" He knows his words are awkward, but he has to say something to fill the void between them.

"I don't know. Whatever." Mike wishes he hadn't spoken, but he can't take those words back, can't mend this moment.

"What?" Scott watches Mike closely now.

The words are burning in Mike's throat. He has to say them. Now or never. "What do I mean to you?" he asks quietly, so quietly that he almost hopes Scott doesn't hear.

"What do you mean to me?" Scott's incredulous, almost mocking voice dashes all of his hopes. Though, the thought of mocking Mike right now is completely gone from Scott's mind. Right then, he says it just for something to say. There's something in Mike's voice that worries him. "Mike, you're my best friend." So simple. And that's the whole of it. No more than friends.

"I know, man." God, he knows. And he wishes he doesn't. "And I - I know - I know I'm your friend. We're good friends. And it's good to be, you know, good friends. That's a good thing." His words are coming out confused and stilted, and he knows this, but now that the dam's been opened, he can't close it.

"So?"

"So, I just –"

Scott turns away, understanding, looking away as though this is fast becoming trivial. Inside though, he doesn't know what to do. He can't give Mike an answer, because he knows it's the wrong one.

"That's okay." Mike says, the only sound in the silence, knowing how hollow the words sound. "We can be friends." There's an eerie finality to his statement, and he looks away from the fire, away from Scott, so that he can't see his expression.

Scott's not sure what to say. He sits up so that he's properly facing Mike. He has to make this clear, but he wishes like fuck that he didn't have to say it. "I only have sex with a guy for money."

"Yeah, I know." God, he knows this. And it's tormented him for so long.

"And two guys can't love each other." As Scott says this, his dad's voice suddenly echoes in his head. Something his dad said years ago. Holding to his values that two guys shouldn't ever be together. Never. And now it echoes in his head, a reminder of his past, making Scott want to take it back, but he can't now. The words are out there, and even though they are softly spoken, they hang like a knife, dividing him and Mike.

"Yeah." Mike agrees out of habit, from four years of knowing Scott, and believing that whatever he says is right. Something compels him to contradict it, to speak the truth. All the stuff that he never thought he'd say is flowing from his lips involuntarily. "Well, I - I don't know. I mean - I mean, for me...I could love someone even if I...you know, wasn't paid for it. I love you and you don't pay me." The last few words come out like a whisper, barely audible above the crackling of the fire.

"Mike–"

"I really want to kiss you, man." He can barely believe he's saying this. He needs to sleep, go to sleep and hope that when he wakes up this was all a dream. "Good night, man." Mike sinks into himself, defensively, as though he needs to protect what's left of himself. Scott's not sure what to do at all. Nothing in his life has ever prepared him for a moment like this. Suddenly, Mike raises his head, with a sudden urge to say the words, turn them from a thought in his head into spoken truth. "I love you though. You know that. I do love you."

It's silent again, and Mike once again sinks into himself. He looks broken, and Scott makes his mind up. "All right. Come here, Mike," he says, shifting over to make room between him and the fire. Just because he can't love Mike the way he wants to be loved, doesn't mean he's going to let Mike sit there alone. Mike looks at him like he hasn't heard him right, and Scott suddenly finds himself trying to explain. "It's just like–" His throat dries up. There are no words right now. He gives up, and the next words he says come out like tiny, insignificant whispers, not covering a thousandth of what he was trying to say. "Come on. Just go to sleep. Come on."

Mike moves now, rising fluidly, but his eyes never leave Scott's. The dying light and the increasing darkness are casting strange shadows on their faces, hiding them. Mike buries his face into Scott's shoulder, smelling the cigarette smoke of his jacket, a mundane smell, but it suddenly seems more exotic than before. Scott holds Mike's body as he's done a million times before, but it feels different this time. He's suddenly acutely aware of all the places their bodies are touching, and the warmth of Mike's body against his. He places one hand on Mike's head, feeling his hair over his fingers, protecting him. Like always.

It's dark now, and all that Mike can feel is the heat in Scott's body and the steady, rhythmical beating of his heart.

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Please review! Remember, if you have any ideas for prompts, feel free to suggest them! 


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